Offerings
by BushRat8
Summary: Each time Captain Barbossa comes into port, he brings presents for the innkeeper of Grantham House, both large and small. She loves every one of them, but what she cherishes most is never the object itself. Five gifts in five vignettes.
1. The Finest Drink E'er Known

A/N: His crew may be a ragged, illiterate lot, but Captain Barbossa is very much a cosmopolitan man: educated, well-spoken, obviously well-travelled, with courtly manners when he cares to exercise them, and he has extremely good taste in food, jewelry, and clothing (judging by his handsome grey split-sleeve coat, stunning gold-buttoned waistcoat, chased silver accoutrements, and feathered hat — even if it *is* a bit moth-eaten — he's quite the dandy). While he may indiscriminately toss around cheap trinkets as favors to other women in order to gain more and better service, he's uncommonly thoughtful in his choosing of gifts for someone he loves and knows well, as we shall see.

* * *

-oOo-

THE FINEST DRINK E'ER KNOWN TO GODS OR MEN

-oOo-

* * *

"What are you doing? You'll break your back, Hector; put that down!" The innkeeper rushes to help Barbossa set a heavy barrel on the kitchen floor, then watches as he pries the bung out. "Oh my! For me? This will last for the next twenty years!"

"Aye, an' 'twill be a fine lot of food ye'll cook with it, too," says Barbossa, reaching two slender fingers into the hole to extract a fat peppercorn. "There be other spices aboard th' _Pearl,_ as well, an' ye shall have measures of any ye want."

He has more than spices, having also taken a large quantity of chocolate from a rich Spanish ship, and the innkeeper's eyes grow wide when, having made a second visit to the _Black Pearl_ later that afternoon, he returns with two large, tightly-sealed coffers of dried cocoa beans. "For years I been drinkin' it bitter when I chanced t' pass through Jamaica," Barbossa explains, "but then I were made t' try it wi' honey or cane an' sweet spice." He rolls his eyes to express his delight. "Now ye shall have each day a cup of th' finest drink e'er known t' gods or men, but ye must promise me ne'er t' waste a drop on yer lodgers or that useless wench Cora."

"But I need _something_ to persuade her to stay here…"

"Bribe her wi' somethin' else, then, but promise: ye'll keep it for yerself. Well… an' me. I'll make ye th' first cup in th' mornin', an' after, I'll show ye how best t' crush an' brew it."

Before dawn, though a grouchy Cora does do the work of laying the fire, it's Barbossa himself, rather than the innkeeper, who is hard at work in the kitchen, boiling the water, and grinding the beans with a mortar and pestle until they're finely powdered. "Go fetch us back some milk, then, wench," he orders, flipping Cora a coin, "an' I might let ye have some of this after all. Make sure th' milk be fresh, not turned!"

It's on the tip of Cora's tongue to tell him to piss off — that he's not her master, and just because he's a ship's captain and sleeps in her mistress's bed doesn't mean he can order her about — but the temptation to have a taste of the chocolate is way too much. "Yessir," she replies, scampering off.

She returns with the first milk of the day, sweet and thick with cream, and Barbossa nods his approval. "All right, ye've earned yerself a cup," he tells her. "Now see t' yer mistress an' I'll have it ready for both of ye when she comes down."

The kitchen is fragrant with the scents of chocolate and cinnamon when the innkeeper comes in. "Well, this is new," she laughs at Barbossa, giving him a smacking kiss on the cheek. "I didn't know you were so domestic."

 _In me own house? 'Course I am._ "I've a world an' a lifetime of skills," he counters. "For one, it be useful t' know how t' feed meself on somethin' other'n hard tack an' bits o' furry salt pork." Another moment, and he sets a large cup of steaming chocolate before the innkeeper, and a smaller one before Cora. "Drink up, ladies, but be careful: 'tis hot, and I'm not wantin' ye t' be blisterin' yer tongues."

Barbossa watches anxiously as the innkeeper takes first one sip, then another, and he smiles widely at the look on her face. "Good?" he asks.

"Oh my!" She takes another sip; rolls it around in her mouth. "I've never had anything like it!"

"An' you, missy?"

It's the first time Barbossa hasn't addressed Cora as 'wench,' which has her favoring him with half a smile. "Go-o-o-od," she mumbles through the chocolate as she greedily drinks.

But it isn't her reaction that sets Barbossa's heart to thumping; it's the innkeeper's as she looks at him, not with Cora's greed for something rich and treasured, but with gratitude that, though he should visit a hundred ports and have twice as many rousing adventures, he would still find the time to think of her during his travels.

"It's wonderful, Hector," she whispers. " _You're_ wonderful."

Barbossa never tires of hearing that from her, and when he smiles, his blue eyes crinkle at the corners. He doesn't reply, but one look could tell anyone with half an eye what he's thinking: _Anythin' for you, m' sweet Dove._

-oOo- TBC -oOo-


	2. Something Bought

A/N: A lady's "toilette" (twah-LET′) is an old-fashioned way of referring to her personal grooming ritual, which includes washing, dressing, and otherwise attending to her appearance, particularly the care and styling of her hair.

* * *

-oOo-

SOMETHING BOUGHT

-oOo-

* * *

"Ah: I almost forgot." Barbossa gets out of bed and fetches his coat from the armoire, pulling from the pocket a flat, silk-wrapped package. "When we stopped in at Singapore last, I saw this in th' market, an' knew ye had t' have it," he says, almost shyly.

"You mean you _bought_ something for me?"

"Aye, darlin'." The coin he'd used had been taken in battle, but that didn't negate the fact that he'd made a proper, thoughtful purchase. "Saw it, an' knew th' only hands it should rightly be in were yers."

As he gets back under the quilt beside her, the mystified innkeeper carefully unties the cord and slips off the red silk to reveal a wide-toothed sandalwood comb inlaid with intricate designs of dragons and lotuses worked in coral and mother-of-pearl. "Oh, Hector!" she cries. "Hector, it's so beautiful; thank you!"

"So, will ye sit at yer table now an' comb yer hair out for me?" This is something which always enchants Barbossa and that he finds strangely soothing: to lie on the bed, watching the innkeeper at her toilette before her mirror, brushing and plaiting her long, dark hair. "Or will ye comb it tonight, afore an' after yer bath?" He nips the innkeeper on the earlobe, whispering, "Or mayhap… mayhap ye'll let me comb it for ye?"

She puts her hand on his cheek, fingertips scratching into the curls of his beard. "You must tell me: which one of those many things do you want?"

Barbossa grins. "Only one? Come now, Dove, ye know me better'n that. Nay, m' sweet: I'm most greedy for such a delight in all th' ways I may have it, an' what I want be not just one, but all." He thinks for a further moment, then places his hand lightly on her belly, slipping it downward, his smile growing warm and wicked. " _All_ , for some of th' sweet locks I wish t' comb ain't only on yer head."

"Hector Barbossa, you hush your mouth!"

But she's laughing, and, "Oh, hisht, you," he teases. "Ye bain't offended one bit, else ye'd hardly be wi' me." And although the innkeeper is blushing a deep, dusky rose, Barbossa has long ago learned what her blush often means: that she's only sorry she hadn't thought of it herself.

-oOo- TBC -oOo-


	3. Shall Ye Wear That, an' Naught Else?

o

* * *

-oOo- SHALL YE WEAR THAT, AN' NAUGHT ELSE? -oOo-

* * *

"Dove?" Barbossa calls, almost before he's come in the door. "Dove! I'm home, an' I got somethin' for ye!"

"You, I hope," laughs the innkeeper as she comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Always, sweet." Barbossa wraps his arms around her for a long, warm embrace and a kiss that's so intimate, it should properly be given behind the closed doors of their bedroom; not that he cares how it might appear to anyone not involved in the action. "Been thinkin' of ye all th' time we were headin' for port, an' I'll tell ye: th' hours ain't never crawled so slow."

The poor innkeeper's melting against him, wondering if he can feel the quivering inside her. "I know; it's been like that for me since the last time I saw you."

"Weren't really that long, though, eh?"

"Long enough: three months, I think. Maybe four. All I know is that it was too long to be away from you."

Another lingering kiss and a solemn nod. "Aye, were a long time t' be away from you, too, m' darlin'." Then Barbossa backs off — ohhh, but everything in the innkeeper screams at the loss of his warmth when he does — so he can reach into his voluminous coat pocket and withdraw a soft package. "But look: I brought ye somethin' pretty I found durin' me travels."

Inexpertly wrapped in a square of mostly-clean linen is the most beautiful mantilla the innkeeper has ever seen: long and dove grey, with silver threads worked throughout. Of all the lace he could have chosen, he was obviously thinking of his pet name for her when he settled on this veil, and they both know it.

 _I won't cry, I won't cry, I won't cry,_ she thinks, but she does.

"There now, sweet," Barbossa soothes her, rubbing away a tear with his thumb. "D' ye always weep when receivin' a present?"

"You should know. I've only ever received them from you."

Again, Barbossa takes her tightly into his arms. "Happy tears, then," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Far better those than th' other kind." He holds her for a further moment, then puts her from him, takes her hand, and leads her upstairs to their room. "Let me see what ye look like in th' lace. Hold still, now."

He lays the mantilla over the innkeeper's head, adjusting it so its scalloped edge falls just behind her hairline and drapes about her face and down her back on its way to her knees. "Ah, Dove, 'tis a lovely sight ye are," he sighs, thinking, _That rich biddy what had it afore ye could not ha' looked one-tenth as beautiful._

The innkeeper smiles at herself in the mirror for a moment, then twirls around, the better to see how the silky lace moves about her. "Then I shall wear it for you when you come to visit, and only then," she says. "I'll wear it tonight, if you like, when the business of the house is over for the day."

"Will ye, now?" Barbossa whispers, looking her up and down and licking his lips. "Shall ye wear just th' veil an' naught else, then? I should like t' see ye in a coverin' of lace wi' yer soft skin peekin' through."

The innkeeper giggles and switches her hips at him. "Perhaps I should dance for you while I have it on."

Barbossa catches his breath at the sinuous, suggestive motion of her body. "Now, now, lass, be that any way t' act afore a man what's missed an' been in sore need of ye for so many months? Do it again, an' I swear t' ye solemn: ye'll be dancin', all right: on th' bed, while ye're under an' atop an' afore me, and in ev'ry other way I can think of 'til I've fucked th' both of us silly!"

She looks straight into his eyes, cheeks flushed with anticipation… and does it again.

There's no waiting for the day's business to be over as Barbossa yanks the veil and all else from the innkeeper, taking her to him and gladly making good on his oath; not just once, or twice, but five times over.

-oOo- TBC -oOo-

A/N: As he is so familiar with the Bible, especially the salacious bits, I really, *really* wanted to have Barbossa comment on Salome and her veil dance, and to express the wry hope that the innkeeper wasn't about to ask for his execution after she danced for him, but I think he was just too insanely horny to even remember it!


	4. Pearls of Life

A/N: A tip for those of you who own pearls: wearing them as much as possible is the best thing you can do for them, as their lustre is heightened by contact with skin oils. When they weren't wearing their pearls themselves, women used to give them to their maids to wear in order to keep them in sustained skin contact and at the height of their beauty; a practice known as "walking their pearls." This is exactly what happens when Barbossa continuously handles a string of pearls over the course of two weeks, although he doesn't realize it.

* * *

-oOo-

PEARLS OF LIFE

-oOo-

* * *

On several occasions, Barbossa has taken the black pearl ring from under the innkeeper's bodice; pulled it out on its chain, and given it a kiss. He's always silent when he tucks it back into its soft home in her cleavage, but what should he have said when — for him, at least — that kiss was enough? He knows what it means. Perhaps, one day, when he garners the courage, he'll make sure she knows the words, too.

Save for the ring and the tiny gold hoops in her ears that she's worn since childhood, the innkeeper is bereft of jewels, and, _I really must do somethin' 'bout that,_ Barbossa muses.

Going down into the _Black Pearl's_ holds, he rummages through the jewelry they've taken; through diamonds and rubies, sapphires and emeralds in massive gold settings. _Nay, tain't quite right; not at all. Too big. Too heavy. M' Dove be too delicate for such enormous fancies. When would she wear this? What would she like?_

His swag is all fine and good for selling and making a fortune, but there's nothing Barbossa sees that looks like _her…_ until he finds a lengthy strand of exquisite pink pearls.

Carefully knotted on the finest of silk, the size and color put Barbossa in mind of the innkeeper's nipples. "So sweet," he sighs, closing his eyes and running the cool pearls over his lips. "So perfect."

It will be at least a fortnight before they make landfall, and every night, Barbossa wraps the pearls around his hand like a rosary, praying for the day they reach port, fingering them, feeling them warm under his touch as surely as if they were the innkeeper's soft flesh. Each morning, he looks at the gems and swears there's more life in them, though he doesn't know why, and can only ascribe it to his own yearning heart. "They know I be comin' for ye," he whispers into the darkness, feeling the smooth spheres slide over his chest and his cheek. "Th' closer t' home I get, th' more they brighten an' shine."

The morning the ship makes port, Barbossa slips the pearls into a silken bag and makes straightaway up the hill, banging once on the door before letting himself in. "Where be th' lady of th' house?" he asks, frowning when a very cross Cora appears.

"She's feeling poorly, so I'm stuck with havin' t' run the place," replies Cora.

"Ye got lodgers?"

"No."

Barbossa is sorely tempted to slap her; stops himself only because he knows it will upset the innkeeper. "Then what're ye kickin' up such a grumble about?" he snaps. "If ye got no one t' look after anyway, it bain't right t' make yer mistress worry 'bout th' state of th' place when she be sick, so close it all down, an' I'll pay what ye' lose by way of income were ye full up. Hear me? An' make sure there be some decent broth brewin' t' feed her!"

Cora scrambles to lock the front door while Barbossa goes upstairs to find the innkeeper pale and feverish in her bed. "I'm here now, sweet," he murmurs, "an' ye'll be looked after proper."

"So tired…"

"I know, I know; I bain't surprised, darlin', hard as ye work yerself. See now, I have some pretties for ye t' bring ye cheer." Barbossa holds up the glowing pink pearls before slipping them into the innkeeper's hand. "There be life in 'em, I swear, an' now ye shall have that life t' help make ye better."

Stripping off all that's heavy and sharp and hard and rough, he slips into the bed beside her, gripping her hand which holds the pearls. "Rest now, Dove," he whispers, over and over. "Rest an' get well."

There's a jug of lemon water at the bedside, and he gives her sips of it from time to time, holding the glass so she needn't put the pearls aside; likewise, he feeds her from a mug of good mutton broth Cora is keeping on the grate. "Tha-a-at's it, drink it down. Now sleep… sleep…"

Come evening, and not wanting to stay away longer than he has to, Barbossa feeds himself on toasted bread and butter and cheese from the kitchen before returning to look in on the innkeeper. "Ye're gettin' better," he says, as much to reassure himself as to encourage her. "Fever's breakin', fer certain." The slight clack of the pearls she's holding diverts his attention. "Can ye feel 'em? Feel how smooth they are? I chose 'em 'specially for you…"

"Unnhhh…"

Over the next day, the innkeeper's fever lessens and she comes back to herself; and never, during all that time, does she let go of Barbossa's pearls. Finally, the glint of illness leaves her eyes and she looks up at him. "Ohhh, Hector," she mumbles. "I'm so glad to see you. How long have you been here?"

He strokes her hair out of her face. "Long enough t' see ye get better. Could ye not feel me pearls in yer hand?"

The innkeeper is suddenly aware of the strand she holds; not cool and smooth, but hot and dry. She tries to lift them, but is still too worn out, and it's Barbossa who takes them from her so she might see…

And stops.

And stares, astonished.

What had been glossy, shimmering pearls are now dry and dull — almost powdery — as if all the lustre had been sucked out of them by illness and heat. "I were right, Dove," says Barbossa in wonder. "I were _right_. There really _were_ life in 'em" — he smiles in relief at the soft, healthy pink that has begun to suffuse the innkeeper's cheeks — "an' now I see 'tis that life what's been given t' you."

-oOo- TBC -oOo-


	5. Linen & Plate

o

* * *

-oOo- LINEN & PLATE -oOo-

* * *

"What in the world…?" The innkeeper watches Barbossa haul in a wheeled trunk full of who-knew-what; laughs as he flings his hat with a practiced flip of the wrist to land on a hook on the wall. "Planning on moving in?"

 _Ye don't know how many times I've thought t' do just that._ "Not just yet, Dove, though it be a most temptin' proposition." Barbossa rolls the trunk into a corner of the parlor. "See now, not everythin' we take be gold an' fancies, as ye well know." He lifts the lid. "Got some gold an' indigo out of our last action, but mostly, th' ship were full of household furnishin's an' other such goods. We'll sell or trade most of 'em, but I know ye been needin' plate for yer table an' linen for yer beds. This ain't all I have for ye, but 'tis a start… an' ye may keep th' trunk, too. Useful wi' th' wheels on it, d' ye not think?"

The innkeeper's mouth drops open as she sorts through the linens; not the plain cloth she has in her house, but beautifully embroidered and never used. "Looks like you made off with someone's trousseau," she comments. "What did you do with the owner?"

"Didn't kill her or th' crew — 'least, not them what didn't fight me directly — if that be what ye're askin'," Barbossa replies. "There weren't nothin' in it for me t' be a bastard t' a scared little girl, so I gave 'em food an' water an' set 'em adrift in their cockboats. Close t' land," he adds. "I 'magine they be in port at this very moment, a-cursin' me name."

"Mm." The innkeeper picks up a heavily-embroidered tablecover and presses it to her cheek. "You're going to get a reputation for mercy if you don't watch out."

Barbossa had anticipated her question and lied in his answer, not wanting to cause her upset, the lie being the only mercy he's actually shown. Fact was, he and his men had slaughtered every last soul aboard the ship, including the bride — who was no "little girl," but an older and very annoying woman — before raiding it for valuable goods and all its ship's supplies, then burning it to the waterline. "Nah," he says now. "An' anybody what thinks that'll wish he thought diff'rent when he comes up against me."

He kneels beside the innkeeper as she pulls out stacks of linen and then gets to the china and silver and other fine plate. "You tell any lodger what wants t' steal this that I'll be keepin' an eye on it," he says.

Once he's made another trip to the docks to fetch a second trunk, the pair of them set to unloading all the linen and plate and putting it away. "What d' ye wish t' reserve for yerself?" Barbossa asks as the innkeeper riffles though a pile of linens, each lovelier than the last. "Which be th' prettiest t' yer eye? Choose it, an' I'll help ye put it on our bed."

"Sure you don't just want to rumple it up?" she asks with a grin.

"Sure ye don't want me to?"

"Who said that?"

They don't make it upstairs, Barbossa not being the least averse to taking his pleasure in whatever space is closest to hand. "Up ye go, Dove," he says, maneuvering the innkeeper into a nearby broom cupboard, then performing the dexterous feat of lifting both her and her skirts and unbuttoning his breeches, all at the same time. "Up, up, up… We'll rumple th' bed later, but I bain't waitin' for that…"

Cora, passing by, smothers her laughter as she presses her ear to the door, listening to the mops creak and the suddenly-not-so-daunting captain whimper and moan. _You ain't so much, big man,_ she snickers to herself. _You sound jus' like every man an' boy I ever known._

She manages to scoot back to the kitchen a few moments before Barbossa emerges from the cupboard, still panting and sweating and with his breeches rebuttoned not quite correctly. "Th' coast be clear; come on out," he tells the innkeeper, who is trying to dab at herself with her apron while lowering her skirts into place. "Here now, lass, ne'er mind that."

"What?! Crikey, Hector, I'm dripping!"

That gets her a snicker and a tickle under the chin. "Heh, well… I been savin' it up since last I saw ye, darlin'." Barbossa wiggles his eyebrows, adding, "An' I got lots more where that came from whene'er ye want it. Ye've only t' say."

The innkeeper gives him a smile, sweet and saucy and loving, and so desperately longing that it breaks his heart, especially when she lays her head on his chest and wraps both arms around his waist, whispering, "Ohhh, dear Hector… you've brought me so many beautiful things, but out of everything you've ever given me, I think you're the very best present of all."

-oOo- FIN -oOo-


End file.
